Between a Rake and a Hard Place

by Connie Mason

  When he brushed his palm across her short, curling hairs as he transferred his attention to her other leg, the effect was as startling as if she’d been struck by lightning. Her whole body was alive with sensation, with anticipation, with—

  “Serena, have you ever been kissed?”

  Her eyes flew open at that. “Well, of course I have. I’m twenty years old, you know.”

  He continued the gentle massage, easing her sore muscles, but frustrating the living lights out of her by not touching the part of her that most clamored for it. If anyone had told her she’d want a man to touch her there…well, it was beyond her understanding. But drat it all, it simply was.

  “Tell me about your first kiss,” he said softly.

  “My second cousin Homer Quinsy stole a kiss from me under the mistletoe. I was twelve,” she admitted. “He tasted of gooseberry tart. I thought my lips would never unpucker. It was awful.”

  What his hand was doing to her was anything but awful. She felt hot and cold and feverish and shivery all at the same time. She had the definite sense that his pleasant strokes were leading up to something, but she was afraid to think what, afraid of the outlandish ideas that kept careening around in the nimble mind of which he thought so highly.

  “Kissing your second cousin doesn’t count.”

  “There have been others.” She’d learned to dance the minuet, and stylized kisses at specified times were as much a part of the steps as the stately promenade.

  “How did they make you feel?” he asked.

  She frowned at him. “They weren’t awful, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

  “It’s as I thought,” he said with a grin. “You haven’t been properly kissed.”

  “Of course I have.”

  Her father had never allowed her to be courted, even when several extremely eligible men approached him about her during her come-out Season. The marquis had always been angling for the grandest of matches for his daughter. “And that sort of thing takes planning. Negotiation,” he was fond of saying. “It’s not to be found in a confounded glorified tearoom like Almack’s or by keeping company with beardless boys.”

  Some of the men hadn’t been beardless, but there was no arguing with the marquis. None of the potential suitors were fine enough, wealthy enough, or well-placed enough for his only daughter.

  “Besides whether you think I’ve been kissed or not,” she said, beginning to have a few doubts, but not willing to admit it, “I think I’m a better judge of whether I’ve been properly kissed than you.”

  “Seems to me you don’t have enough experience to reach a valid conclusion.” He leaned close enough for her to feel his breath feather warmly across her lips. “Are you game for another forbidden pleasure?”

  She swallowed hard. If she said no, he’d think her a coward. Besides, she wanted to feel his mouth on hers. She wanted it most desperately.

  But her voice wouldn’t work. Fortunately, he was satisfied with a nod.

  Jonah covered her lips with his in a sweet joining. He slanted his mouth over hers and traced the seam of her lips with his tongue. It tickled a bit, but she didn’t feel like laughing.

  It felt…wonderful.

  Soft. Liquid. Pliable.

  His hand moved closer to down there. It struck her as absurd that she didn’t even know what to properly call that part of herself that had suddenly become the center of the universe.

  Why on earth don’t I have a name for it?

  The ache was becoming unbearable.

  Oh, God. He’s going to touch…But what if he doesn’t?…don’t make me ask…don’t make me beg…oh, there.

  A fingertip grazed her curls and she gasped a bit at the shock of delight that shot through her again.

  But she didn’t break off their kiss. Her lips parted and his tongue slid into her mouth.

  Heaven.

  His fingers had retreated back to her sore muscles, but there was so much going on what with his tongue tracing her teeth, she forgot about that low ache for a moment. She let him explore. She suckled him a bit and when he withdrew, she followed his tongue back into his mouth. The whole world was wet and warm and giving and demanding.

  Then just as she’d decided there was nothing on earth so fine as this man’s mouth on hers, his hand moved up to cup her sex.

  Nine

  We are saddened to report that yet another couple has gone haring off to Gretna Green. Miss Phoebe Lovelace and the honorable (or should we say “not-so-honorable”?) Mr. Bartholomew Bird, fifth son of Lord Sirey, have fled north in their haste to wed. While Miss Lovelace’s uncle, Lord Hastings, has reputedly settled a tidy sum on her, Mr. Bird is utterly without prospects, unless one counts the living his father is trying to arrange for him as a country vicar in an unnamed village. Once Mr. B’s creditors catch up to them, the couple will undoubtedly be poor as church mice in the parish Mr. B will nominally serve. However, given Mr. B’s predilection for spirits, gaming, and, if the rumors are true, wenching as well, one must question his fitness for the pulpit.

  One wonders what the lady was thinking. Then again, perhaps the question should be “with what was she thinking?”

  From Le Dernier Mot,

  The Final Word on News That Everyone

  Who Is Anyone Should Know

  Serena pulled away and looked up at him, her lips kiss-swollen and her eyes wide. Her breasts rose and fell with short breaths. Jonah still held her hot little self in his hand. He longed to explore her tender little valleys, to drive her to shattering pleasure, but he forced himself to stay immobile while she accustomed herself to this new intimacy.

  “Well,” he said. “Had you been properly kissed before?”

  “No,” she whispered. “I’d never been properly kissed before. But I suspect there’s nothing proper about what you’re doing to me now.”

  “I’m only holding you, Serena.”

  She squeezed her eyes closed and a single tear slipped from the right one. She was trembling.

  “You’re doing more than that,” she said.

  “What does it feel like I’m doing?”

  “It feels like you’re…you’re…I don’t know. I’m so confused.”

  “Am I hurting you?”

  She swiped away the tear and opened her eyes. “No. Nothing hurts. Even my sore muscles feel fine now, and I want you to…hold me…but…well, yes, I do hurt. In a way. I ache something awful.”

  “I can fix that.”

  “How?”

  He moved his hand a bit, settling one finger into her soft crevice.

  She drew a shuddering breath.

  “I never dreamt I could feel like…I mean…no one told me…” Then her eyes flared with alarm. “Jonah, I can’t…we mustn’t—”

  “I agree. We mustn’t,” he said. “That’s why I’m only going to touch you, and when we are finished here you will still be in the same state of purity you now enjoy, Serena.”

  “I’m not certain enjoy is the right word. Is all this…this throbbing normal?”

  “Perfectly.”

  Her lips went slack for a moment. “You’re sure?”

  “Trust me,” he said. “This is one forbidden pleasure that will turn out better than you expect. I only want to give you delight. Will you let me?”

  In answer, she reached up and pulled his head down for another kiss.

  Jonah was free to touch her now however he chose. He started slow. He traced the delicate edges of her folds, teased the short curling hairs, and circled her mound till she was arching herself into his hand. Then he dipped into the soft wetness of her.

  He found her most sensitive spot and tormented it, first with the pad of his thumb, then with his dexterous middle finger. When he pulled back from their kiss, her expression contorted into that look of anguished ecstasy one sees in paintings on the faces of saints in rapture.

  She stretched up to kiss him again and groaned into his mouth. She demanded he give her his tongue. She broke off their kiss,
threaded her fingers through his hair, and brought his head to rest between her breasts. Her heart hammered under his ear so hard, he began to wonder if it would burst out of her chest.

  He felt her body stiffen. She was close.

  “Come to me, Serena,” he whispered.

  His words seemed to release her, and her whole body spasmed with the force of her shattering release. It started in her lower body and shuddered in both directions. He kept stroking and drew the moment out in exquisite torment. She gasped, small needy sounds that tore at his control and made him wish he could plunge into her soft wetness and join her in the madness of lust. Then the sounds subsided as she rode the waves of bliss to their gentle conclusion. Finally, she quieted but for an occasional hitching breath.

  Listening to her heartbeat slowly return to normal, he didn’t move his head from her chest. The soft mounds rose and fell beneath his cheek and he breathed in her delicate fragrance, a light hint of orange blossoms mixed with the musky sweetness of her arousal.

  She must dab a bit of scent between her breasts. He longed to discover where else she might apply a drop or two of fragrant oil.

  He still held her sex, but was careful to keep his fingers motionless. Her delicate secrets would be too sensitive, too swollen and charged, to bear more for a while.

  “My word,” she breathed.

  Jonah raised up to look down at her. Her face was flushed a becoming shade of peach. Her lips were parted in a kissably slack state.

  A warm glow surged through him. His body might be growling that they weren’t finished yet, not by a damned long shot, but there was definitely satisfaction to be had in seeing a woman brought to such glorious completion. Serena had been utterly fulfilled and he’d kept his promise not to deflower her.

  He’d just plucked a few petals.

  But her eyes concerned him. She was looking up at him with such doe-eyed languor, his conscience pricked him like a cattle goad.

  Had the daft girl decided she was in love with him? That would never do. He was there to do a job, to claim her maidenhead solely to save his family from being tainted by the scandal Alcock threatened to rain down on them. The last thing he wanted was for Serena to develop a tendresse for him.

  Jonah figured if he introduced her to her own sensuality, she’d probably add lovemaking to that confounded list of hers. And if that happened, Serena was curious enough and adventurous enough that she’d be begging him to take her sooner rather than later, simply because she wanted to cross off the experience.

  Making her fall in love with him was not part of the plan.

  Then her eyes lost that hazy “don’t-give-a-tinker’s-damn-about-anything-because-I’m-still-floating” quality, and her brows drew together into a frown. A wary, narrow-lidded expression stamped itself on her features.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Are you disappointed?”

  “In a way.”

  “What?”

  “No, I don’t mean that. Not exactly,” she said quickly. “It was wonderful. Life-altering, in fact, and I will never forget it. Thank you, Jonah.”

  Thank you? Somehow that grated on him. She made it sound as if he’d just shined her boots.

  She sat up, pushed his arm out from under her skirt, and spread the fabric demurely over her legs.

  Limbs, he silently amended. Even now, she’d want me to think “limbs.”

  “Why are you disappointed?” He’d never had a complaint from any of his other lovers.

  “It’s not your fault. I suppose I’m just upset that I’ve been kept so ignorant of how my body works,” she said as she tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

  “I doubt young ladies are routinely instructed in such things.”

  “Indeed, we are not.” Serena pulled on her pelisse and began catching the long row of silver frogs that marched down the front of the long coat. She studiously avoided looking at him. “Otherwise, I could have done this myself.”

  “Yourself?” Oh, that mind of hers. He ought to have counted on her haring off in an unexpected direction.

  “Well, couldn’t I?”

  He couldn’t very well say no. His own history of occasional self-gratification didn’t comprise his proudest moments, but he’d managed to keep his body’s needs in check with it more often than he cared to admit. “Yes, I suppose you could.”

  “I thought so. Why on earth isn’t this information given to young women?”

  “Perhaps you should write an instructional pamphlet,” he said, sarcasm graveling his voice.

  “An excellent idea.” She threw her legs over the side of the sofa and reached down to tug on her boots. “Of course, I’d have to use a nom de plume, but I rather suspect the pamphlet would sell like hot buns once the word got out.”

  “You have no need to make money by writing a pamphlet about that.”

  “Of course not. Money is not the object.” She rose and replaced the sheet on the sofa, smoothing the edges neatly. Then she walked over to peer out the window at the horses outside. It occurred to Jonah that she was avoiding meeting his gaze. “The pamphlet could be offered at only marginally more than the cost of the paper and ink. Do you have any idea how many women might be spared from making rash decisions about questionable gentlemen if they knew they could sate their…marital urges themselves?”

  “There are lots of reasons women make rash decisions. What about those who choose questionable gentlemen based solely on the fellow’s title?” His tone came out more bitter than he intended.

  She glanced his way then. “That’s another question entirely.”

  “And one for which you have no grounds to write a pamphlet.” He had no idea why, but anger flared suddenly in his chest in a hard, hot knot. “After all, you’re set to accept a man you’ve never met simply because he’s the son of a king. When it comes to wedding a title, it appears as if you’re no different from any other ninny who ever wore a skirt.”

  She flinched as though he’d slapped her. Then she turned and stalked out the door without so much as the hint of a limp.

  At least he’d managed to massage the soreness out of her groin muscles. The way she held her shoulders, so squarely rigid, he was sure she was sore about something else though.

  For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why she should resent it when he’d spoken the truth. And he’d just given the girl a self-admitted “life-altering” experience. Yet all she could do was natter on about writing instructional pamphlets on how to “sate a marital urge” solo. She had no idea how much it cost him to merely touch her when he wanted desperately to bury himself in her. When he wanted to be closer to her than anyone he’d ever known. When he—

  Stop it, Sharp, he ordered himself as he followed her outside. You can’t care about her. You can’t want her. You’re going to muck up everything.

  Without a word and without waiting for his help, Serena hauled herself up onto the back of the mare. Then she turned her mount’s head and started off at a brisk trot.

  And I’ll bet she’s not squeezing constantly this time.

  He mounted Turk and hurried after her down the lane. She paused at the road.

  “Do you think the coach has passed by already?”

  It wasn’t the most intimate of conversations, but at least she was speaking to him.

  He stared at the winter-rutted road in both directions. “No. I see only our tracks. This way.”

  They rode in silence back toward the spot at the top of a hill where the highwaymen had appeared. Jonah wasn’t sure how much time had passed. It had seemed to expand and contract around them while he lost a bit of himself in Serena. But he hoped his friends had finished their little charade and made good their escape.

  As they drew near, voices seemed to echo disjointedly off the woods around them.

  “Hold a moment,” Jonah said.

  Serena reined in and cocked an ear. “It’s Amelia.” A brief smile flashed over her lips. “That’s her major general voice if ever I heard
it. Whatever’s going on, she’s definitely in charge. Let’s go.”

  “Wait.” He grasped her reins to keep her from riding away without him. She eyed the leather strips in his hands as if she could ignite them with her glare. “I’ll give them back if you promise not to keep running away. I only want to make sure you’ll stay long enough for me to say something to you before we join the others.”

  “I don’t want to talk about the duke.” The wariness was back in her eyes. “Haven’t you scolded me enough over something that is beyond my control?”

  He handed her back the reins. “I rather doubt that anything in your life is beyond your control. More than any woman I’ve ever known, you do what you want and say what you want.”

  “And I am censured for it regularly, I assure you. What is it you want to say?”

  “Just this. I gave you an experience today.”

  She bit her lower lip. “And I thanked you. It was…quite beyond my imaginings.”

  He held up his hand. “There’s no need for you to thank me, because you gave me something too.”

  She blushed, that same peachy glow that had lit her from within back in the hunting lodge.

  “You gave me your trust, Serena, and I want you to know that I do not take it lightly. So it is I who should thank you.”

  Her mouth twitched. “I rather doubt those words pass your lips very often.”

  “They don’t.”

  “Then it must have meant something to you too,” she said softly. Then she drummed her heels on the mare’s flanks and sped away.

  Yes, damn it. Jonah urged Turk into a canter after her. It meant something to me too.

  He just wasn’t quite sure what.

  Ten

  In advance of the Season, a number of the finest families are arranging house parties at their country estates in order to allow their precious debutantes a chance to hone their social skills with close friends of the family before they are subjected to the harsh light of public scrutiny at their come-outs. Society is on pins, hoping for invitations to the most sought-after parties.

  By far the most coveted invitation is one to Wyndebourne, a four-story Georgian manor on our fair land’s southern coast that serves as the country seat for the Marquis of Wyndleton. Not only is the sea view said to be divine, but it will be the perfect venue from which to watch the last lap of the Hymen Race Terrific unfold for the daughter of the house. Tally ho, Lady S!